The “Great War” introduced a large number of terrible
news ways of dying, from Gas to Flamethrowers, from barbed wire covered by
machine guns to terrible bombardments that drove men insane as they covered in
their bunkers.

I have always been horrified at the thought of
confinement and suffocation, so it is no wonder that I dedicate a page to what
I find must have been one of the most terrible deaths, being buried alive.

For a tale of bravery and rescue during a bombardment please follow this LINK

The passage below is taken from a postwar novel called
“Wir Fahren den Tod” by Thor Groote (Real name Dr. J.M. Berg). It is one of the
realistic novels that enjoyed great success in the 1930s.

Wir fahren den Tod

Suddenly I feel a thud and sit up. My bed breaks and I
fight my way through the tangle of blanket, overcoat and straw mattress,
cutting my hand as I get up.

There is a howling outside, getting stronger and
stronger, it increases steadily and punctuated by explosions.

Although I cannot see anything, I am under the
impression that all around me things are moving. Something falls from the
ceiling and hits me on the head; I get up and make for the door but stumble
over my chest. Another howl followed by an explosion. Everything around me
shakes...

Outside the night is pitch black. Somewhere in the
distance there is a flickering of muzzle flashes, a crash of thunder followed
by a howling and a humming. I jump backwards; I have never felt so alone in my
life.

I hear the sound of voices; they are drowned by
another series of crashes. From somewhere I hear a scream, enough to shake one
to the core. I have never heard a scream like it, it is a scream that will not
stop and is only momentarily drowned out by the crashes and explosions.

Left: The dog tag of Johann Stierstorfer who had a short but dramatic frontline
career. He joined the 12th Company of the Bavarian 11. Infanterie
Regiment in June 1916 and went into the line in the Fleury-Thiaumont Sector at
Verdun on the 12th of July. On the 22nd of July he was
buried alive by an artillery shell. He survived the experience and at the end
of September he was wounded by an artillery shell and did not return to the
front.

I crouch in the deepest recess of the bunker not
daring to lift my head. My teeth are chattering and I shut my eyes although it
is dark. When I hear the whiz I cover my face with my hands, and take them away
again as soon as the shell has burst. I ball my fists, I know I am scared,
damned scared. I say to myself that there is no force in the world that can
move me out of my corner. Again and again I crunch myself up, each time it
seems the world around me is moving. A big explosion sends something flying
through the door.

I cower in my corner and shiver.

Good God! Will it ever end…? It seems as if I have
been in my corner for years. Yesterday and before seems to be so long ago.

An indescribable crash and everything around me
disintegrates. My tongue is thick with dust and dirt, the air is sticky, oppressive.
The roaring has gotten weaker, the terrible screaming has stopped, the tide has
gone back. It is dark.

I feel sick. I am scared.

The deathly silence shocks me. I am beyond
comprehending anything, my mind is a mess. Maybe it didn’t happen, maybe it was
just a terrible dream. I shake myself, must wake up. Frantically I look towards
the entrance, there must be some light. But everything remains dark, remains
quiet.

“Fetch your lamp!” I say to myself. I try and stand
but hit my head. Now I am crawling on all fours. My backpack should be there.
My hands touch wood, then cloth, then wire then cloth again. I stop crawling and
listen. I hear and see nothing. Carefully I crawl forward. Splintered wood,
stone, earth and iron.

I cannot find my pack, but I must be near the exit.
Damn, I hit my head again.

The door must be there but I feel wood, earth and stone,
all over the same. Splintered wood, stone and earth. Cloth and wire. I tear my
hands open. I have crawled all the way around... there is no exit!

I am overcome with blind panic. My whole being tries
to deny the reality of my situation.

I feel my way around again, walls, splintered wood and
earth, always the same. I shout, scream. I am answered by total silence.

Above: Johann Steurer (Right) was serving in the 16th
Bavarian Infantry Regiment when he was buried alive on the Somme. His brother
Josef had been missing in Action since the 9th of May 1915 and was
finally declared dead on the 27th of November 1916.

It is no use, I am buried. I try and fight the
thought. The air is bad, I have to cough. I have sand in my mouth and need to
vomit.

I start to dig, wildly, in all directions. I tear my
hands on the splinters, furiously I scratch und dig. It is no use, the earth trickles
back. Gathering my force I push against the walls, I flail at them with my
fists until the pain makes me stop. I throw myself against the wall with all my
weight. Sand and dust fall on me.

I try digging with a wooden board but get nowhere, my
gums are getting drier and my nose is blocked with dust. I sat there, slowly it
dawned on me, I had been buried alive on my first day in the field.

I had not even felt as if I was at the front. I had
imagined it much differently, more heroic, as people spoke of it back home. But
this is very different; this is no hero’s death, “Hurrahs!” and eager deeds.
This was simply snuffing it, like an animal.

When I marched out, it seems like years ago, I had a
little fear for the unknown, for the future. Now I was sure, this was it, my
war and my life, both over. I begin to pray, more earnestly than ever before. I
think of my mother and my 17 years and begin to cry.

Then I pull myself together, this will not do! I must
do something, I must get out of here, it is crazy to sit here crying. I begin
to dig again, shouting, screaming at the top of my lungs. There is a deathly
silence around me. Desperately I pound the walls with my fists again, bringing
more dirt down on me. Have they forgotten me? Are they also buried somewhere
under the ground? Have they been blown to pieces? Is it really the end? It looked
to be that way.

Above: Martin Stich was buried alive on the Somme on the 3rd
of September 1916.

I went directly from home, into the grave. If I had
left a day later I would still be sitting on the train.

Hours pass... or is it years…

I breathe shallowly, fighting for breath.

And so pass the last few hours of my young life. I
feel no bitterness, just astonishment. Astonishment at how easily fate grabs me
and how powerless I am to fight it.

Suddenly my reverie is broken...was that a noise? I
listen tensely. Yes! Digging! I call out, shout, as loud as I can. I listen
again, the digging sound is clearer. There is a knocking sound...

It takes a long while for them to dig me free, then
the light shines in, forcing me to close my eyes tightly. Someone grabs my
shoulder, it is the Leutnant.” So Junker, back with us again...” He pulls me
upwards, other hands helping him. I gulp the fresh air...

There is the Wachtmeister, and Heller, and Beermann
and a sea of unknown faces. “You need a stiff drink” says the Leutnant clapping
me on the shoulder again.

“Feeling a bit shaken?” The Wachtmeister asks, “not a
very nice welcome to the front…” he adds.

"It was no so bad" I answer, trying to
control my voice. Why should I let them know how scared I was? At the same time
I felt ashamed for lying....